#21 The Oppression Of A Knife Fight In The Night-Time
#21 The Oppression Of A Knife Fight In The Night-Time
Today, we end up in a dark alley, with an unexpected presence.
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#20 The Oppression Of A Knife Fight In The Night-Time
You can say what you want about me. You can say whatever you feel. I’ve always felt free to be me, no matter where I’ve come from, no matter where I grew up, who my people are, what is expected of us. I’ve always felt I can overcome the expectations, the reputation a world like that has.
It’s dark outside. The journey back to the station is a lonely one. Cars groan across the way on the main road. The rain drum rolls against the tarmac.
The party was dire. The same empty-headed people smiling and nodding and agreeing with each other. They don’t recognise that they’re all the same, and that’s why they think the same. And yet I stood out. They questioned who I am, what I am doing there, what bizarre, unexpected events brought me to that moment, in that place.
Who are they to question me?
I turn left and right and left again, down an alley, not far from the station. Steam billows out of a grating in the wall. A streetlight lights the floor immediately around it, but its reach is short and bright, leaving the rest of the alley dark.
Maybe they’re right, I think. Maybe I could never make it among them, because I didn’t go through what they did. Because I wasn’t privately educated, because I didn’t go to that university. Maybe it’s because I grew up sleeping in a room with five siblings, rather than the freedom of five empty rooms, with all that space to think.
I know I’m wrong, but I still ask the question. I can’t help it. The inherent injustice just seems too cruel not to be true. I feel resigned. I rub my eyes. I’m nearly at the station. I’ll be home soon.
CRASH!
The sound of metal falling alerts me, brings me back to reality. I turn.
I try to focus my eyes.
It was so loud. So close. But there’s nothing there.
I turn back and start to walk again.
Just get to the station, I think.
The wind picks up and whistles in my ear. Then, without hearing it, I sense this presence. There is someone with me. I don’t know who, or what, or where, but I sense it.
I keep walking.
After a moment or two, something within me stirs and I turn to see if someone isn’t right there behind me.
To my surprise, now, I do see someone. Just a figure. Stood still. Hooded and dark, unidentifiable. I’m scared. I put my head down and turn back. I start to walk faster, even into a light run. I look back and the figure is coming towards me now, moving faster than I am. They are running too.
I pick up my pace, breaking into a full run. But when I look back, the hooded figure is so close they could reach out to me. And that’s what they do. They leap forward and grab me by the shoulders, pulling me down to the floor.
We tumble onto the hard tarmac, the thin pool of rainwater splashing up onto my face. I roll over to push the hooded figure off of me. I scramble backwards, away from them, and look up to try to see their face.
They stand, and the hood falls down off their head. The person is me. It - he - has my face. The same skin. The same eyes. But there’s a difference. There’s a scar down one cheek. And a split in his lip that looks like it’s been stitched up. And his hoodie and tee-shirt are ragged and torn in places.
‘Get up,’ he says.
For whatever reason, I do not question him. I stand.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out two knives. Before I can question it, he tosses one over to me, which I react quickly to and catch in my right hand. I look down at the knife, shiny and sharp. I wipe the blade on my sleeve and look up at this scarred version of myself.
Before I have time to breathe, to ask what on earth is going on, the scarred me is leaping forward with his knife poised.
He takes a swipe which slices through my sleeve and splits open a red slash in my arm. I reach immediately for the wound, as though holding it together will stop the pain. My whole left arm is numb and yet I feel so present, more so than I ever have in my life before.
I think of family, of the dark room with all my siblings in that tiny flat. I think of my brother, who I whispered with late at night, dreaming about getting far away from there, about being successful in whatever life. I think of my grandmother, who could no longer afford her own home, so she lived with us too. And who I saw every morning and every evening until she passed away. She was part of the furnishings for a place like that. Nobody could stand in the way of my plan to get away from there.
I stand and look again at the knife in my hand. The scarred man is coming at me again, this time for my right side. He takes a swipe, but I reach up with the knife and take the momentum out of his swing, pushing his arm to one side. I reach up with a boot and kick the man back, who stumbles on both feet until he steadies himself.
His face shows no emotion, not surprise, not confidence, there’s no wry smile. He just exists without feeling.
I step toward him, with the determination to end this silly bout.
‘What do you want? Put an end to this. Let me go home!’
But the man takes no notice of my words. He reaches out again and swipes. He misses me narrowly. I reach up while he’s recovering from his miss, and swing at his arm with the knife. I get a clean slice on his forearm.
While he’s recovering, I grab him by the neck, hold his wielded arm so he cannot stab me, and force him against the wall. I look him dead in the eyes. There’s no doubting it. It really is me. It’s exactly me. Bar the scars, there’s nothing about him that isn’t me.
He kicks me and forces me back, and quickly leaps across the alley, pushing me down to the ground. He punches and kicks. I stab back and make contact with the fingers that cling to the handle of his blade. He drops the knife to the floor and then scrambles after it. I take my opportunity, reach over to him and kick him down into a puddle.
‘Who are you? Why are you attacking me?’
The man is trying to reach the blade, but I kick it away. He’s helpless now. I thought he’d be angry, full of hate. But in his eyes all I see is fear. And his lips start to tremble. Saliva spills out and clings to his chin. I think he’s crying.
‘Why are you trying to kill me?’
‘I’m not. I-I-I can’t help it. I had to do it. I gave you that knife, remember.’
‘Why did you do it? Just tell me why!’
‘I had to. I had no choice!’
The scarred man is trying to reach up to his face, to put his arms in front of his face, as though worried I’m going to stab him there.
‘Why did you do it?’
And I feel my hand take the knife forward and press it down to his neck.
The rain is falling more heavily now. I can’t see either end of the alleyway. The streetlight is an orange, hazy blur. I feel heavy, tired. I don’t know where I am or how I got here. All I know is that I am. That this is real. And that I have never been sadder for it.
‘Why did you do it?’
The man’s neck resists the blade slightly, allowing a soft indentation into his flesh.
What should I do now?
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